


Monarch

by gardnerhill



Series: Over, Under, Through [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BAMF John Watson, Community: watsons_woes, M/M, Prompt Fic, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:55:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/885237">Over, Under, Through</a> (7/15 prompt, “halfway there – miles to go”).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monarch

**Author's Note:**

> For JWP 2013 Prompt # **31: Just a little bit more:** Write an add-on scene to one of your own stories. This can be an addition to a previous entry you wrote for JWP. Please link the story to which you're adding on!

_Just a little bit more! We’re nearly there – truly, this time! Just a little bit more!_

Holmes did not need his eyes – blindfolded as he was to counter vertigo from his cracked head – to know when they had reached safety at last. The smell of smoke from coal fires; the cries of relief from the haggard group of survivors from the train derailment, who had marched through the snowy woods in the deepest darkest part of a freezing night, over under and through every obstacle Nature and weather had laid. The cries of horror from the townspeople roused in the wee hours by the commotion caused by this bizarre pilgrimage. And the soft thump as the boy in front – William, who’d been bearing the lantern for Watson and the others to see during their trek – collapsed in the snow where he stood.

The town church served as their makeshift hospital and refuge (and where the fireman received his last rites). Holmes recognized the sound of a dragging limp as Watson’s walk when he was on the knife-edge of exhaustion; he was still going among the wounded with the town’s medical men, examining his own bandaging or confirming diagnoses. He did not resist a sigh of relief when he was given morphine and his head was finally unwrapped. Freed from his imposed blindness, the first thing he saw were the eyes of his friend, a few decades older than they had been when this evening had begun. A weary exchange of looks were all the pair needed to confirm information others would have required minutes of speech to convey; Watson watched while an impossibly young man resplinted Holmes’ arm and wrapped his ankle, and moved on to tend to other patients. He did not touch Holmes himself. _Not yet_ , his body and eyes had said, _not yet_. Holmes understood.

The second thing that the sleuth observed was one of the church’s stained-glass windows. His lips twitched; for a moment he almost believed that the coincidence was a miracle. He was tired.

***

The aftermath of the tragedy was unremarkable. The survivors returned to their homes (many accompanied by coffins of their loved ones who had not survived the derailment); the fireman’s body was claimed by his guild for return to his own family; Holmes and Watson returned to Baker Street, after expressing their condolences to Inspector Callender for the postponement of their involvement in his case. (“The local constabulary will have already made proper hash of the evidence at any rate,” he’d snapped, just to make Watson smile.)

And Watson waited until they were home before sinking into a profound melancholia, disappearing upstairs into his study and the little-used second bed from which he barely stirred for the next two days. Holmes, still hindered by his splinted arm and strapped foot and gradually-improving head, left him alone, though it grieved him. Flowers and laudatory telegrams – unfortunately one of the train survivors had been a journalist who had played up the heroic tale for his paper – went unnoticed; all of Holmes’ care was for the sorrow fled beyond his grasp. He looked up the stairs, too steep a flight for his foot. _I get down in the dumps sometimes_ , _just leave me alone and I’ll be all right. You remembered and you wrote that. You’ll be all right too. You’ll be all right._

But he collected and saved the letters Watson received from the other survivors – a scrawled note from little Gretchen telling him all about her Mama’s funeral accompanying the bereaved husband’s own words of gratitude, the head of the fireman’s guild thanking him for tending their brother in his last hour, a dire promise from Pennington to contact his solicitor over Watson’s threats during the march (Holmes smiled like a cobra and saved that one for Mycroft).

But it was the note from William the younger (“I didn’t know how awfully tiring it is to be brave. I hope I don’t have to be brave again for a long time”) that brought light into Holmes’ own heart, and returned the memory through his concussive haze of the church window and the scene from the lives of the saints.

His arm was still splinted. But he could sit on the sofa and hold his Stradivarius upright on his knee like a mediaeval viol, to play a mediaeval tune for this winter-time.

Watson had trudged through the snow and the freezing night at the head of the refugees, leading them and keeping them together, keeping them from sitting down to rest and dying of the cold. With him had been young William, holding a lantern for everyone to see where they were going, whom Watson had encouraged and distracted with soldier stories and who had waited until they were safe before relinquishing his duty.

He took up the bow. And into the old carol he poured his love and admiration for his friend, his brave soldier, his fearless lover – his Watson.

_Good King Wenceslas looked out_   
_On the Feast of Stephen,_   
_When the snow lay round about_   
_Deep and crisp and even…_

He did not sing, but he played all the verses. He knew the tune and its words would echo in Watson’s head as he listened.

_…Page and monarch forth they went_   
_Forth they went together_   
_Through the rude wind's wild lament_   
_And the bitter weather._

_"Sire, the night is darker now_   
_And the wind blows stronger_   
_Fails my heart, I know not how,_   
_I can go no longer."_   
_"Mark my footsteps, my good page_   
_Tread thou in them boldly_   
_Thou shalt find the winter's rage_   
_Freeze thy blood less coldly."_

_... Therefore, Christian men, be sure_   
_Wealth or rank possessing_   
_Ye who now will bless the poor_   
_Shall yourselves find blessing._

“I am not a king,” Watson said behind him.

“That is debatable,” Holmes returned in the same tone, setting down the bow. His arm ached but was in no danger. “I would advise you to ignore the telegrams and concentrate your attention on the letters paperweighted with the lead soldier, a gift from your page. They are my arguments in favour.”

And peace spread over Holmes like a blanket when Watson sat beside him on the sofa, leaning in to him, to read them aloud.

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics to “Good King Wenceslas” by John Mason Neale.


End file.
